


i'm choking on your grave dirt

by apotheosizing



Category: Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Angst, Cults, F/F, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining, Pre-Rebellion Story, Psychological Horror Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25702228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apotheosizing/pseuds/apotheosizing
Summary: Homura wanders until she finds a safe harbour.
Relationships: Akemi Homura/Kaname Madoka
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	i'm choking on your grave dirt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autumnstwilight (sewohayami)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/gifts).



In a world only Homura remembered, each magical girl balanced on a knife's edge of hope and despair. Despair clouded the glass cage that housed their souls and gave birth to witches; hope reminded them of what they fought for and upheld the link between their being and their body. In the cycle designed by the incubators, neither hope nor despair could be zeroed. Madoka, crowned with hope, had rebelled against that system and instituted the Law of Cycles, allowing hope to envelop magical girls at their end rather than despair. That cruel destiny had been destroyed for the magical girls of the new world - but not for her.

When the end of the world came, grief had blossomed from each shaky breath of the survivors into a desert of desolation. She could not confirm it, as the incubator that had taken to dogging her footsteps vanished with the usefulness of Earth to their plans, but Homura doubted more than a handful of magical girls were resilient enough to carry on. An endless, impossible, pointless battle was all that remained. Many-handed despair crawled up her throat as she stared out from her vantage point atop the crumbling edifice of what had once been a skyscraper.

Her left hand shook as she manifested her soul gem in her right. Behind the thin glass of the gem, a black sea roiled. Vanishingly few pinpricks of violet light gleamed against the darkness. An inexorable sinking feeling took hold of her as she watched them wink out. She wouldn’t be able to protect the world that Madoka had loved any longer.

 _Madoka_ — Thoughts of Madoka were a bulwark against the spreading hopelessness, holding fast despite the curses that sought to eclipse it. If she were to fall into the clutching arms of despair, Madoka would be there to catch her. Homura’s absolute trust in the overwhelming hope held in Madoka’s parting words, which proclaimed with the authority of a thousand angels that they would be reunited, sealed the cracks of her soul gem, keeping the self-destructive hatred at bay.

The realization of what that meant hit her all at once. Dimly, she noted the unevenness of her breathing. In the space between the universe that was and the universe remade, Madoka’s promise had been intended to comfort Homura. In her infinite compassion, Madoka had spared a thought as she martyred herself for Homura’s soul-rending grief. Despite the pain she must have felt, despite the fact that the omnipresent being she had become would never experience their separation, for she would exist at the moment of their reunion; she would exist at every moment, past, present, and future.

And yet, those comforting words had inadvertently created a paradox that echoed through the fabric of the world as much as the wish that had transformed her had. No matter how all-encompassing her despair, she could never experience either the depths of a witch’s despair or the exaltation of Madoka’s perfect hope. Her vision blurred, confusing her until the understanding that she was crying pressed through the numbness that had enveloped her.

She would never see Madoka again.

Time, which she had once known intuitively, the way that one knew their own self, escaped her. Unfeeling, undying, she walked through the desert of the end of the world. She continued to fell any wraiths that she encountered, zealous as any warrior-saint, but a feeling she could not pin down made her feel disconnected from herself without the heat of battle driving it from her mind.

It was different from the disconnect between her body and her soul. Homura had never been bothered by the notion that she was merely animating an empty shell, had never cared what she would have to become to save Madoka. She imagined this unnameable pain as the hollowness of a pumpkin, carved out.

Homura hated that hollowness, knowing that it was pure selfishness. Madoka still needed her to fight and so she fought, but the bitterness that she could never lay down her arms and embrace the happiness that she’d once wished for was like bile on her tongue.

Homura intervened in as many battles as she fought alone, turning the tide when wraiths threatened to overwhelm those magical girls who fought to protect the vulnerable. She first heard rumours of a girl with a red ribbon in her hair from a young couple in the aftermath of one such conflict who were painfully reminiscent of the Kanames. They commented on it after seeing Homura’s own ribbon, wondering at the coincidence. The girl in question had saved friends of theirs from a wraith, asking for nothing in return and disappearing as soon as she’d arrived. Upon hearing their description, Homura slipped away before the nameless girl she had fought alongside could thank her.

Carried on the murmurs of the thankful, Homura eventually found the place she sought in the midst of a raging sandstorm. The ruined structure rose through the gloom like a hand, broken archivolts for fingers and gables for nails. Its grey stone had weathered the elements well enough to remain a shelter from the harsh wind and heat. The style of the building’s construction reminded Homura of the Sakura family’s church, its old Western architecture out of place among the soaring modern design principles of Mitakihara.

Once, before Homura had known everything about the other girls who had been tangled in the strings of fate alongside Madoka, Sakura had shown her the charred husk of the church on the edge of town. It had been a reciprocal gesture, done in response to Homura’s tale of her wish that had burned across time, told in a timeline where her story wouldn't change anything. Homura had trailed her fingers across the smooth wood of the pews, listening to Sakura Kyouko’s regrets.

Her own family had not been especially religiously observant, though she had a faint memory of tying a slip of paper to the branches of a tree in the days before her illness had prevented her from doing so. Still, she had felt a pang of sympathy for Sakura in those repeating days until sympathy became too dangerous to harbour. As she stared at the cathedral dedicated to the Law of Cycles, empathy crept into its place.

The set of iron double doors, encrusted with grains of sand, slid open jerkily at her push, catching on the uneven ground. In comparison to the winds that howled outside, the foyer was silent enough that if she drew but a single breath it would disturb the peace. Candles spaced at regular intervals lit the space enough to work by, trailing down the hallways that extended on either side of the narthex.

She heard the sound of approaching footsteps before she saw the girl who appeared around the corner that led down the left hall. In profile, a single red ribbon tied back her unkempt blonde hair, drawing Homura’s eye with a small frown of confusion. “Welcome, traveller. Are you in need of our help? We can only offer a little, given the circumstances, but…” She trailed off, gaze falling on the ring on Homura’s left hand. “Oh! You’re a magical girl, if I’m not mistaken.”

Rings themselves were not uncommon accessories but there was a certain air of miraculous light that surrounded magical girls if one looked carefully. Homura could sense it from the other girl, just as surely as it must have drawn her attention to Homura's ring.

She nodded, not yet daring to speak. She’d had the misfortune to learn that wraiths could mimic magical girls, down to the way Madoka tugged at the hem of her sleeves when she was nervous, until the moment came to dissolve into static and strike at her heart. She had no reason to trust that the girl before her was any more real than that apparition had been.

The girl brightened, raising her right hand so that her own silver band caught the candlelight. “Most of us here are. What brings you to us?”

Homura’s eye did not waver. “That ribbon.” She produced the ribbon that was all that remained of Madoka from her pocket, where it had weathered the raging storm outside. Expertly, she removed her headband and tied the ribbon in its rightful place. “I— A girl saved me some time ago and she gave me this. I wanted to know where she’d gotten it.”

The other girl nodded. “Ah, I see, so you don’t entirely know who we are. You’re a magical girl, so surely you know about the Law of Cycles?”

“At the moment of our despair, She takes on our burdens and leads us away before that despair is unleashed on the world,” Homura recited.

“Precisely. Every magical girl owes their ability to fight on to Her, since we know that we can face the curses of the world without it spilling back out in the end.” The girl began to walk, indicating for Homura to follow. She retraced her steps down the hallway as she spoke. “We wanted to honour Her for that and do what we can to ease those hardships along the way.”

Homura trailed behind her, wondering what Madoka would think of this place. Certainly, she would think it was noble to help people who were suffering, but Homura suspected she would be embarrassed that others looked to her as their inspiration. She had thought of herself as no one special, though that couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

“So, we are a group of magical girls who all work together. We try to support others who come to us, too, with our magic. I can heal, for example, but it’s more like accelerating the natural healing process so people have to recover for a time anyway.” The girl sounded apologetic. Homura remained silent.

“They say that when the Law of Cycles appears, She wears white ribbons. It’s not quite the same as our red, of course, but it just feels right, don’t you think?” Together, the two entered the nave of the building. Its high-vaulted ceiling disappeared into darkness, as the light that poured in through the windows struggled to illuminate it. At the head of the room was a limestone statue of a girl with wings sprouting from her back.

“But, anyway, since you’re both a visitor and a magical girl, please feel free to stay as long as you like. I’ll ask one of the other girls to make a room ready for you, if you’d like.” Homura agreed.

In the following days, she learned that the girl who had met her at the door was named Asai. Several other magical girls stayed at the church full-time while others ranged far and wide to combat the wraiths. It was not uncommon for small travelling parties to stop in at the church, seeking aid and supplies, but it was rare for those who were not magical girls to remain.

Homura did what she could to assist them, serving as the first line of defense against incursion. All the while, she worked carefully to avoid calling upon the strange wings of barely-contained witchcraft even in the most dire battles. The girls of this world would not know what a witch was, but Homura knew that the brightly-blotched magic of witches registered like the spots on the backs of poisonous frogs to even untrained magical senses.

Each time she looked upon the church’s central statue of Madoka, her heart ached. She wasn’t certain if the name of the feeling was awe or heartbreak but she was without fail brought back to that moment where Madoka, engulfed by light and power, had transformed into her magical girl form for the last time. It hurt, and yet she never wanted to look away.

As days became months, the prospect of assisting those who wanted to carry on Madoka’s wishes that had dazzled her began to wane. Bright light cast deep shadows and Homura’s attention was slowly being drawn to the movement in the darkness.

The unsettling air surrounding the church boiled over after a particularly arduous encounter with a group of wraiths. No sooner had she loosed an arrow into the eye of the last wraith than one of the larger variants coalesced from the blocky residue that flaked off the creatures. Its skeletal visage was split down the middle, the two sides hanging like masks from a central network of triangular shapes. It wielded a javelin in one hand, fire sprouting from its triangular tip in a halo.

Homura bit out a curse, throwing a hand downward to weave a network of leylines to empower her arrows. The wraith gave her no quarter, lifting its empty hand in an unexpected gesture. Pushing through the stone of its palm came the blades of five sabres, gleaming bronze in the light cast by its javelin.

She had only seconds to react, having to rely on her reflexes rather than being able to fall back on her ability to manipulate time. It was impossible to tell which way they would fly, leaving her few options. She released the gathering leyline, flinging her body backwards in the hopes that she could avoid them that way.

Four of the five blades embedded themselves in the cracked ground mere moments after she leapt away. The last, carefully aimed, pinned one of her legs to the ground, stopping her in her tracks. Twisting painfully, she fired back with a volley of arrows, weak purple streaks following the fletching. Like a pincushion, each found its mark in the wraith’s hand. The creature didn’t even flinch.

Its javelin was still a palpable threat, one that she would have difficulty avoiding while unable to move. Concluding that if she was required to hold her ground, she would take advantage of the solid position, she poured her concentration back into the magical symbol she had been interrupted in creating initially.

Accelerating the process with magic meant that it would be less meticulously laid but the greater magical power made an arrow that flew true more likely to destroy the wraith if she waited for the right moment. She knew she would feel the consequences of draining her reserves in doing so later.

The wraith struck forward with its javelin, aiming not for her heart but for the purple gem on her hand. She had never known the wraiths to be intelligent enough to realize that magical girls could not be killed in the same way as humans. The notion that this one knew threw her into a momentary panic.

Without thinking, the riotously colourful wings unfurled from her shoulders, arcing protectively around her form. They could not shield her from the scorching heat of the javelin, which spoke of how close she had come to true danger, but the deadly tip glanced off them harmlessly and spun out of the wraith’s grasp.

Homura reached out a hand to catch the javelin. She only barely managed to grasp it, notching it on her bowstring in lieu of calling arrows forth from the ether. It was larger than her magic arrows but it seemed to fit perfectly all the same. A gentle touch settled on the hand that pulled back the bowstring, guiding her carefully toward her target.

As the wraith reared back, she released the javelin, aiming for the triangular mesh between the two halves of its face. The sheer force of the impact blasted the little pyramid apart and the magic the improvised arrow pulled up from her leyline obliterated the rest of the wraith’s form.

Once she was convinced that it had dissipated, Homura pulled the arrow from her leg to allow her magic to knit the wound closed. Though it would continue to tax her magic, it was better than limping back to the church.

By the time she returned, her injuries had healed but she knew that there was little chance that she would be able to fight again for at least a few days. Asai accepted the news without question, insisting that Homura take care to ensure that she was fully recovered before resuming her regular patrols. She would ask a few of the other girls to take up the task until she was ready.

When the cover of ill-fated stars blanketed the sky, she spent her first night of sleep in the church. Being fully aware of her nature, Homura preferred to sustain herself with magic rather than play at being mortal, allowing her to keep her vigil on the roof of the church throughout the night. Sleep was not entirely the right word for redirecting the energy required to animate her body to recovering her magic but she had no other.

Even so, she did not require as much rest as she once had and she woke well before dawn at the sound of someone moving past the door of her room. It should not have been sufficient to wake her, to say nothing of drawing her to her feet, and yet Homura found herself moving to the door with the deep-set conviction that something was _wrong_.

By the time she opened the door, the person had moved out of sight. Keeping her steps feather-light as a counterpoint to her strained breathing, Homura followed the sound of their movement around the upper lever of the church toward the staircase. For as much as she had grown familiar with the building over the past several months, she found herself having difficulty recognizing it outside the light of day.

Shadows elongated the hallways and made the pools of moonlight that shone in from the windows blindingly bright, casting the unilluminated portions of the floor in utter blackness. Homura slowed her pace as much as she could to avoid careless mistakes in the dark while shadowing her quarry. Navigating the stairs required a deft touch, as the faux wood creaked loudly when any weight pressed it down.

Her quarry darted into the nave, selected one of the pews seemingly without deliberation, and spoke softly into the dark. Homura lingered just inside the grand archway, watching with a hunter’s patience. Minutes passed like molasses. She was nearly satisfied that they were simply a worshipper praying late at night when a glint of light from a taper her quarry lit shone across wide pink irises. Homura could not mistake those distinctive eyes after so many nights spent searching for them outside Madoka’s window.

Whoever she had followed stood from the pew, candle in hand, and turned back toward her. Nearly too late, Homura pressed herself into one of the alcoves at the back of the nave where a long-dried font stood. As her quarry passed her hiding place, she glimpsed Asai’s familiar features.

Homura waited until Asai’s footfalls were inaudible before stepping out, bow in hand and magic shaping her plain attire into familiar purple and grey. In one breath, she released an arrow that thudded against the foot of the limestone statue, piercing through the disposable body of an incubator.

She waited for it to stir, advancing toward it only when no movement came from either the corpse or the shadows. Contempt bored its way into her heart as she looked at the incubator, her thoughts racing. Were the incubators attempting to manipulate Asai in some manner or was she fully aware of their presence? Had she spoken under the impression she was alone or within the context of a clandestine meeting?

Homura clamped down on the catastrophe unfolding in her thoughts, reminding herself that the incubators of the universe reborn had a less imbalanced relationship with the magical girls of this universe. Or _had._

_"But that 'witch' system you mentioned in your story is quite interesting. As a means of collecting the energy we need, it certainly has its appeal!"_

Horror-stricken, she remembered that she explained the nature of witches to the incubators herself, in her attempt to learn the rules of a world to which she was a stranger. It had claimed that there was no way to confirm the truth of her words, as that previous universe existed only in her memories and yet, with Asai assisting them, the content of her idle questions soured with sinister intent.

If they hoped to subvert Madoka, or worse exploit her, to create the power to fight entropy, it was all her fault. Disgust overwhelmed her as she looked up into the benevolent eyes of the statue of Madoka. In the moonlight, she found that its features were subtly wrong, not at all portraying the face of the girl she loved. Some part of her wondered if it had always been so and she, blinded by the prospect that she was doing what Madoka would have wanted, had simply failed to look closer.

She fought the urge to sob, unable to understand how Madoka could have ever seen anything worth saving in her. Madoka had given up everything to free her from the endless maze of time she had trapped them in and with a few stray words Homura had sullied that sacrifice. The damage had been done.

Homura could not stand to stay in the church another moment, her failures trapped between its four walls. No longer caring if she was seen, she turned on her heel and fled like a vanquished demon, disappearing into the night.

The incubator’s wide pink eyes stared unblinkingly after her as she went.


End file.
